


work for it (you've got to earn it)

by underpressure



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blindfolds, Blowjobs, Inspired by Art, M/M, Rimming, Teacher/Student, illusions to unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underpressure/pseuds/underpressure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t want to drop the class. I read all the stories.” He panics a bit. Mr. Tomlinson doesn’t think he’s smart enough to take the class and that is so disappointing because American Literature is his favorite class (besides sociology) and it definitely brightens up his schedule. His eyes widen and they burn again with tears – he really, really doesn’t want to drop the class. And dumbly he thinks maybe, maybe if the short stories were written about Mr. Tomlinson, Harry would do better – make A’s even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	work for it (you've got to earn it)

**Author's Note:**

> a huge thanks to [prettytruthsandlies](http://prettytruthsandlies.tumblr.com/) for permission to write a companion piece to her gorgeous [art](http://prettytruthsandlies.tumblr.com/post/77951557853/mr-tomlinson-gives-extra-credit), even if it the writing is a bit shit.

He bombs the test on short stories – like burn the test so he doesn’t have to show his mother, beg Mr. Tomlinson for extra credit that will take him at least five Saturdays to complete and cry in the shower for a bit. He makes a twenty out of a hundred. It’s bad and he totally does have to wipe away a few tears of frustration and ignore a weird look from Niall when he sees Mr. Tomlinson’s messy scrawl on the back page.

_See me after class._

It’s one thing to fail a test and tell his mother that he did all right while he desperately tries to make a better grade on the next one. It’s an entirely different situation when it’s the second test that he has failed miserably and he has to tell Mr. Tomlinson that he really just doesn’t understand what is happening on the tests. What does it even mean to relate each of the main characters from the three short stories to each other? Different authors wrote them. What did they do – write to each about making sure that each character in each short story from that time period felt alone or sad or murderous? He wouldn’t know.

The thing is that Harry has a problem focusing in Mr. Tomlinson’s class. It wasn’t because Nick Grimshaw sat right in front of him and his quiff usually blocked the entire center of the board and it wasn’t because Caroline Flack sat to his left and usually wore low cut tops that all him to get at least five different glances at black lace in the first half hour of class. It wasn’t due to any of the students around him that Harry was failing each of the damn tests. It was all Mr. Tomlinson’s fault – Mr. Tomlinson and his absolutely gorgeous face and fit as all fuck body. 

Harry is broken out in a sweat well before class is over. He feels terribly nervous and embarrassed. His long fingers crumple the edges of his test paper, teeth worrying over his bottom lip. What if Mr. Tomlinson thinks he’s stupid? What if he asks him to drop the class? What if he asks him to get his mother to sign the exam? Can they do that? He’s sure they probably can. God, none of this ever happened with Gemma. He feels his eyes burn as he waits for damn Liam Payne to fuck off from asking Mr. Tomlinson any questions about the test. He can plainly see the bright red 100/100 circled at the top of his damn paper. He pouts a bit – okay, a lot.

It takes forever for Liam to leave as he sticks around to talk about Faulkner and Harry can see that Mr. Tomlinson is giving him clipped answers and walking him toward the door. Harry bites into his thumbnail, ass propped onto the center desk in the class. He does not check out Mr. Tomlinson’s ass as he says goodbye to Liam (except he so, so does and that ass is fabulous in the skinny pants that he always wears). 

“Mr. Styles, you saw my note then.”

Mr. Tomlinson is shorter than Harry, especially when he props his hip against the dark wood of his desk. His hair is long and dark – looks ridiculously soft. His chin is scruffy and his eyes are sharp. He reaches out a long arm for Harry’s test paper. The red 20/100 is angry on the front, embarrassing. Harry feels the flush slide up from his chest, escape the wide neck of his sweater and paint his cheeks. 

“I read all the stories.” It’s his only option – to tell the truth, because he did read those stories. He read all of the Faulkner, Welty and Steinbeck. He’d googled them afterwards, read the SparkNotes version and even had Zayn talk over the Welty one with him. Yet here he was with a failing grade and a blush dancing over his cheeks. 

“I know you did, because your facts are correct. You just are all jumbled up and you avoid answering my questions on the tests. You just talk about the literature and summarize it in your answers. I don’t need you to do that. I have read these stories too.” He aims for cheeky, Harry knows that, but the joke flies over Harry and he just feels even more shameful. He can’t even answer a fucking question correctly and Mr. Tomlinson thinks he’s stupid. He feels stupid too, like he will never understand American literature and eventually he’ll flunk out of the class. 

“I read all the stories.” This voice sounds stressed, stretched high and upset.

“Harry, don’t panic, okay? Are you distracted? You are only a freshman and American Literature is a second year class. It’s okay if you can’t take the workload that comes with the class. You can always take it next year, when you feel like maybe you can understand it better,” Mr. Tomlinson lays his paper onto the desk next to him, runs a hand over the crinkled edge where Harry’s fingers had worried tiny rips. 

“I don’t want to drop the class. I read all the stories.” He panics a bit. Mr. Tomlinson doesn’t think he’s smart enough to take the class and that is so disappointing because American Literature is his favorite class (besides sociology) and it definitely brightens up his schedule. His eyes widen and they burn again with tears – he really, really doesn’t want to drop the class. And dumbly he thinks maybe, maybe if the short stories were written about Mr. Tomlinson, Harry would do better – make A’s even.

“Okay. Well then let’s talk about what’s not working out for you, okay? Maybe you just aren’t studying correctly?” 

So he sits in the desk and talks through each damn question from the test, answers them perfectly and swallows the pride that bubbles up in his mouth when Mr. Tomlinson turns to him sharply during question number four and says:

“Why the hell haven’t you put any of these answers on the tests?” 

He shrugs and explains how fucked up it is that Powerhouse has to take his break at a bar down the street instead of in the club he’s playing in. Mr. Tomlinson looks impressed. Harry feels marvelous, wonderful, on top of the world.

He fails the third test and has to set up a special meeting with Mr. Tomlinson as per the rules of the school. It’s on a Wednesday in October and he’s ridiculously nervous because Mr. Tomlinson has seen how he knows the material. What if he thinks Harry is failing on purpose? 

“Harry,” He starts, closing the door to his office and coming to take seat behind the large desk that takes up a bit too much space in the room, “I really don’t understand what is happening with your grades. You know the material but you come in and give crap answers on tests. Are you trying to fail?”

“N-no! No! Please, I… I can do extra credit!” The idea is genius and Harry can’t believe he hasn’t considered it before, like really considered it. 

“Extra credit?” Mr. Tomlinson’s eyes darken and flicker funnily before he adjusts in his chair and leans forward, teeth biting at the end of his pen. “What kind of extra credit did you have in mind, Harry?”

“I could write a paper.”

And really, Harry blames all the porn that he’d watched since he first started Mr. Tomlinson’s class for the next thought that comes to mind.

_I could suck you off._

“I could grade papers.”

_I could suck you off._

“I could…” He trails off, eyes wide as Mr. Tomlinson stands and makes his way to the office door, fingers flicking the lock into place.

“I don’t know about any of those. What else did you have in mind, Harry?”

“I… I could…”

_I could suck you off. I could suck you off. I could suck you off._

“I could suck you off.” 

The silence after the words tumble off of his lips is deafening, and his heart threatens to beat right out of his chest. The tight collar of his uniform chokes him.

“Alright.” 

Wait, what? 

“Sir?”

“You can suck me off as extra credit for this test,” says Mr. Tomlinson, leaning back into his chair, smirk over his lips. 

Harry’s mouth gapes open, his fingers stiff against the arms of the chair he’s sitting in. His cock, however, has paid complete attention to their conversation bringing Harry back down to earth as it twitches in his uniform trousers. 

“Well, Harry, do you want the extra credit or not?” The teacher stands, walking around to the side of his desk and hand coming down to grip where his cock is pressing against his zipper. Harry slips from the chair, walks on his knees to kneel in front of Mr. Tomlinson. His fingers slip the metal of his zipper down easily, as he glances up at the man before him. He’s biting into the thin skin of his bottom lip, nimble fingers coming up to pull at his tie, loosening the knot.

“Leave it,” Harry’s voice is rough, like he’s already swallowed Louis’ cock. He watches as Louis’ hands fall from his neck and slide through the thick curls on Harry’s head. He pulls down the dark pants and then the boxers, lets Louis cock stand in front of him. Harry’s never sucked dick before, never even seen a real one in front of him besides his own or after P.E. or accidently at Niall’s that one time. He gulps, hand coming up to fist at the base, fingers sliding through the dark hair there. His mouth feels both dry and wet at the same time, and he slides his tongue out to swipe over his bottom lip and then the head of Louis’ cock. 

It’s salty and smooth, everything and nothing likes he’s ever imagined. He slips his lips over the head in a barely there kiss, opens his mouth and lets his tongue lave over the skin, slide down the sides and then slips Mr. Tomlinson’s cock in his mouth. He sucks messily, clumsily; feels his spit slip down over his knuckles as he takes as much of Mr. Tomlinson’s cock into his mouth as he can without gagging. His cock presses angrily at the zipper of his pants, and he slips a hand down to grind into the bulge, to relieve some of the pressure that builds there. Mr. Tomlinson’s knuckles are tangled in his hair, tugging at the curls every time the flat of his tongue presses against the underside. When he pulls off to catch his breath, jerking his fist over Mr. Tomlinson’s cock like they always do in porn, Mr. Tomlinson tugs him up by the arm, pulls him to stand. 

“This okay?” asks the teacher, when he reaches up to undo the buttons of Harry’s shirt. Harry nods, reaching forward to grip at the anchor printed tie around the teacher’s neck, tugging on it so that the older man will kiss him. Their lips slide together easily, the teacher’s tongue sweeping out to lick at the mess of sweat and spit and precome that surrounds Harry’s lips. His fingers undo the tie easily, tugging the long piece of fabric and gripping it tightly in his fist – remembers something he’s seen on the internet.

“W-will you blindfold me?” The words come out between kisses as Mr. Tomlinson finally shoves his shirt down his arms and then begins to unbutton his trousers. His knuckles brush against the long line of Harry’s cock as he tugs the zipper and then jerks down the last of Harry’s clothes.

“Y-yeah, with what?” He pulls away from Harry’s face, fingers sliding over the long line of Harry’s torso to grip and tug at Harry’s cock. He moans helplessly, face coming forward to rest in the crook of his teacher’s neck.

“M-Mr. Tomlinson, oh” He whimpers, fingers tightening around the fabric of the teacher’s tie. 

“Call me Louis.” He says, hand sliding down to grab the tie from Harry, reaching up to cover Harry’s eyes. “Alright?” He asks, when the fabric is knotted and everything Harry sees is black with glimpses of light by his bare feet. He nods, hand coming up to blindly grab at Louis’ jaw and guide him back into a kiss.

Louis’ hands slide down the smooth line of his back, grip at the fleshy bit of his ass. He slaps lightly at the skin, pulls the cheeks apart so that the cold air hits the dark pink between them. Harry whines against Louis’ slick lips. 

“Gonna let me fuck you, Harry? Gonna let me fuck you for your A?” His fingers are up at Harry’s lips then, slipping between them as Louis moves to suck at his neck. He sucks on the digits, breathes shallowly when they press deeply into his tongue. Louis’ pulls them out and he kisses Harry again, and then Harry feels it – feels the wet trace of Louis’ finger over him, circling and pressing. He whines out, fingers gripping at Louis’ shirt – and briefly thinking why the hell he was still dressed? He jerks at the tiny buttons, desperate to feel Louis’ skin under his palms as the older man’s fingers press at his hole. 

It doesn’t take him long to get the shirt undone, shove it down his teacher’s arms. Louis’ fingers pulling away to let it fall from both of his wrists. Harry whines when the fingers leave him, skin slick with his own spit and a smirk dances across Mr. Tomlinson’s mouth.

“You’re filthy, aren’t you, Harry? A filthy boy?” His hands come down to the fleshy globes of his ass, presses his finger tips into the skin and tugs it apart. Harry whines, teeth sinking into the skin of Mr. Tomlinson’s neck when a finger slides through his cheeks again, presses against the rim, teasing. 

“Yes, yes. Please.” He feels desperate, heart racing in his chest as his fingers grasp at Mr. Tomlinson’s hips, fingernails scratching dark lines into the skin. 

“Gonna make you feel so good. You want that, Harry? Wanna feel good?” Louis pulls away, and Harry whines because he’s standing naked in the middle of Mr. Tomlinson’s office and he can’t see anything and he needs… he needs so much. 

“Come back, please. Please.” He sobs, hand coming down to tug at himself. 

“Hands off, Harry. No touching.” Mr. Tomlinson’s breath washes over his ear, making him shiver. He feels the older man guide him to his desk. 

“Climb up here, I’ll help you.” He ends up on his knees and elbows, hands cradling his head as Mr. Tomlinson stands behind him, hot breath washing over his ass cheeks. Everything feels sharp, and Harry desperately wants to pull the blindfold off but it is making everything amazing, everything feels deep, like he has to trust Mr. Tomlinson fully. His cheeks are pulled apart and he feels the stubble around Louis’ jaw rub roughly over his skin, whines out.

“Quiet. We don’t want anyone to hear you.” Louis’ tongue falls between his cheeks, licks long and wet over his rim and Harry’s breath is gone, wrenched from his lungs with each lick. Louis points his tongue, breeches Harry’s hole to lick at the inside of him. Harry pants into his fist, teeth gripping at the skin there. 

“Please. Please fuck me.” 

Louis’ fingers are wet when they press into him, mouth moved over to suck a bruise at the back of his thigh. It feels like Louis fingers him forever, fingers stretching and scissoring inside him as he pants into his arms, sweat beading at the small of his back. He whines out when they brush against his prostate, massaging into it before they are gone altogether. 

“L-Louis, please. Oh, please.” He reaches a hand back, fingers searching for the older man, wanting desperately to touch him. Louis grabs his hand, pulls him to stand on his knees on the desk. 

“Come on, sweetheart. Climb down and bend over the desk.” If Harry could see more than the slivers of light above and below the blindfold, he would have a perfect view of Louis’ hand slicking up his cock as he gripped Harry’s arm, guiding him off the desk. His cock rubs against the wood as he bends over, arches his back up.

“Fuck me. Please fuck me,” Harry cries, nails scratching over the papers that his knees had messed from their stacks. Louis rubs his cockhead over his hole, teasing the rim as Harry gasps into the desk. 

“Gonna work for your A, babe? Gonna earn it? Let me fuck it into you?” Louis pushes in slowly, works every inch in with a long thrust as Harry’s fingers crumple up the papers underneath him. Everything is sharp, stinging as Louis’ hips collide with his ass with each thrust. His hands grip the skin of Harry’s hips, tugging him back, urging Harry to fuck himself on Louis’ cock. 

“C’mon, baby, fuck yourself on my cock, yeah? You want that A? You gotta work for it.” Louis stops moving, jerking only at Harry’s hips until he gets the idea and works himself back, fucking himself. He whines pathetically into the desk, hips working quickly.

“Wanna ride me, baby?” Louis presses kisses to Harry’s back, hand sliding round to jerk at his neglected cock. Harry whines into the wood, nods as Louis pulls out. “Gonna work for your grade, yeah baby?”

Louis helps Harry back onto his knees on the desk, guides him to straddle him as he lies back against he ungraded papers, pens, and grade books. Louis keeps one hand on Harry’s hip, fingertips guiding him to sit on Louis’ cock. Harry lets out a long whine, hands squeezing bruises into Louis’ shoulders as he sinks down.

“Feel good, Harry?” He brushes a kiss over his cheek, lips barely pressing to the flushed skins. Louis fucks up into him a few times, lets him find his prostate so that Harry can make another pretty moan at the feeling. “You gonna ride me, babe?” 

Harry nods jerkily, thighs working as he fucks himself on Louis. His hips move funnily, disjointed and Louis has to keep a strong, guiding grip on his hips. He helps Harry move, lifting him up and then dropping him down as Harry’s jaw drops, tongue sweeps out to wet his bitten lips. Watching Harry is fascinating as the younger boy takes everything Louis will give him. He reaches down a hand, wraps it around Harry’s cock. It’s angry at the head, a deep red and Harry whines high in his throat as Louis jerks him off.

“Gonna come. Oh, I’m gonna – gonna come.” Harry gasps, hips moving jerkily, no longer bouncing but grinding against the solid pressure of Louis inside of him.

“Yeah, baby, come on,” Louis hisses, wrist working in tandem as Harry releases over Louis’ stomach. He falls forward, face coming back to rest in the crook of Louis’ neck as he pushes into him a few times, chasing his orgasm before he gets an idea.

“Get up.” He taps at Harry’s face, helping the boy off of him – pointedly ignoring the high whine that makes his dick twitch. “Get on your knees.”

Harry is sight on his knees, cock softening between his pale thighs as he licks over his lips, waits for Louis. He comes before him, guides his cock to slip over the raw lips. Harry moans out, tongue coming out to pull Louis in. He sucks harshly, spit slipping out of the cracks in his lips, hands gripping at Louis’ thick thighs. Louis grips at his hair, jerks roughly when Harry gets him in his mouth, forces the boy to come down further, to gag a bit. He expects Harry to jerk back, but Harry moans louder, bobs his own head to get Louis deeper and that does it. He pulls from the lips, lets himself come on Harry’s face, over the flushed cheeks and the tie that is still knotted around his head. He slips a thumb over his come, forces it into his mouth as Harry reaches up to pull the blindfold over his eyes, pupils blown to deep black circles.

“Was I good?”

“So good, Harry,” He says, pulling the younger boy to stand and presses kisses to his cheeks and lips. “Harry, Harry, Harry.”

“Harry? Harry, are you alright?”

Harry blinked rapidly, looking over at where Mr. Tomlinson was leaned into his desk, eyes focused on Harry. He was still dressed, anchor printed tie still knotted around his neck.

“Are you still okay to do the paper on Eudora Welty for extra credit?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading. i apologize for any mistakes but i've been writing this for three days and the idea of doing anything more than a quick scan makes me annoyed. please feel free to come say hello at my [tumblr](http://falsecompare.tumblr.com). i'd really like to know some of what you guys would like to read in the future, so feel free to leave ideas and things -- especially let me know if you'd like something with more ~feels~ than just ~dickinbutt~


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